


Trust

by Rosywonder



Series: First Year [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: F/M, Gen, first year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosywonder/pseuds/Rosywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Veronica Rohde has discovered something which could bring great benefit or wreak havoc on the world.  Who will she trust?  The head of UNCLE Section Two, Grant Chesters, a man of seemingly impeccable credentials, or the man she once loved and lost, Illya Kuryakin?  And can Napoleon Solo prove once and for all that Chesters is in fact working for THRUSH, before both his own and his new partner's careers and possibly lives are ended?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

 

****

 

 

**PROLOGUE**

 

She looked down the length of her body, not that there was much to admire about it.  Before, she’d thought of it as exceptional, flawless even.  Now, like her life it was fading, the bones pushing against the skin; a bare covering.  She turned her head, comforted by the sight of the luminous colours and patterns on her arm, spilling over her shoulder.

 

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, blotting out the sight and sounds of the man with his back to her, bent over his equipment. 

‘Are you sure you can finish it in time?’ she said to the ceiling.

‘If you’re sure’ he replied without turning, his voice a little muffled, and then  eclipsed by the sudden roar of traffic outside on the road.

After that the relative calm of the room returned, punctuated only by an occasional bird or the wind gently clattering the wooden blinds covering the open windows.

‘You’d better get on with it then’ she replied, closing her eyes. 

 

**CHAPTER 1**

 

The café edged by the flight of steps leading up to Kuryakin’s apartment brought uncomfortable images to Napoleon’s mind.  Images of himself and the feeling of black despair that had threatened to envelop him as he sat with the bitter taste of coffee and his latest cigarette in his mouth and the sinking certainty that the man standing at the top of the stairs watching him was very likely to follow the fate of his other partners very soon.

 

Since that moment his fatalism had been proved unerringly accurate once more, and Illya Kuryakin now lay inside the walls of the building in front of him, recovering from injuries sustained in yet another botched mission intimately connected to the person of Napoleon Solo.

 

This partnership however, despite outward appearances, felt different to the others.  Napoleon couldn’t quite put his finger on why this was, or why, despite the mission taking the usual disastrous path they had all followed unerringly over the last year, he felt almost optimistic about the future.  He sighed rather loudly and took the steps two at a time, tapping the code rapidly with his fingers and then taking another run at the interior staircase leading to Kuryakin’s apartment door.

 

He was familiar with this building and this apartment.  Before Illya, a safe house for a while.  And before that, the home of his first partner Steve Jacobs.  He thought of Jacobs as he hesitated in front of the door.  As far as men went, Jacobs and Kuryakin couldn’t have been more unalike.  Besides his height and colouring, Jacobs was as quintessentially American as the guys you saw in a B war movie, from the flat top haircut he sported to his gleaming white teeth and immaculately pressed pants.  The apartment had reflected his tastes. The Jacobs family had been very comfortably off, and had provided their boy with the kind of plush furniture that spoke of wealth and confident success.  He remembered packing Jacobs’ infinite number of framed certificates and family photographs into boxes, the hard eyes of Jacobs’ father asking him silently why his son was dead and Solo was still alive.

 

There was the usual hiatus before the door opened, the very cheerful face and ample breasts of Nurse Betty Jones filling the doorway and blocking the path between him and his partner.  She already had her coat on, the sound of calming cello music emanating from Kuryakin’s living room behind her.

 

‘He’s allowed that on because he’s behaved himself this morning’ she announced without bothering to explain further.  ‘Marge will be here at one Mr Solo, so please make sure you follow the directions you’ll find in the kitchen, otherwise they’ll be consequences.’ 

 

He was lying on the sofa, a large blanket of an indeterminate tartan pattern wrapped round him like a swaddling cloth.  He had the look of a child who had just been scrubbed clean after a day of exploring and then put to bed early.  His damp hair had been combed back and flattened onto his head, displaying very clearly a motley assortment of wounds and bruises covering his face in the slow process of healing.  The music came to a graceful end with the clank of the record player’s arm settling into its bracket.

 

‘Has she gone?’ 

‘Uh-huh.’

 

Illya’s eyes opened.  He shook his head, restoring the errant hair to its usual state of chaos and then with a little difficulty pulling himself into a sitting position.

‘Whoever insisted on all this will pay for it when I am able to make them pay for it’ the Russian muttered fiercely, rocking a little to free himself from the blanket.

‘Um, well that would be Mr Waverly then’ Napoleon replied, with a somewhat wry smile as Kuryakin finally managed to prise himself free of the blanket and haul himself up the sofa into a sitting position.

‘Oh.  Well it’s still absurd to keep me imprisoned here like this with these two women treating me like a small child’ Kuryakin continued rather petulantly.

 

Napoleon sat down in a low chair by the side of the sofa, obviously used by Nurse Betty for watching her patient.  He could see a bag of knitting pushed underneath, waiting for its owner to return.  He glanced round the room.  The excess of Jacobs had been replaced by the kind of minimalism that made a monk’s cell look crowded.

  ‘I haven’t had much time to get anything’ Illya muttered, divining his partner’s thoughts.  There was a silence between them before he continued, ‘perhaps, um, you could . . .

‘help you?’  The wholly unexpected request took Napoleon by surprise momentarily.  He saw Illya’s battered face colour slightly.

‘Er, I’d be, well, er, delighted.’  Kuryakin nodded faintly and then laid back, a faint air of satisfaction on his delicate features, almost immediately masked by a tightening of the lips and his eyes closing.

 

Napoleon got up and made for the kitchen.  True to her word, Nurse Betty had left copious instructions for the care of her patient, including a row of little pots each containing a different shaped pill, each sitting on top of a small piece of paper with a time written on.  Since it was now nine o’clock, Napoleon realised that only a short time window existed within which he could share his thoughts with his new partner, before the drugs, and Nurse Marge intervened.

 

He could see from the evidence in the sink that Kuryakin had almost certainly eaten something for breakfast, but even a slight acquaintance with the Russian told him that food was something Illya Kuryakin responded to.

‘Um, Illya, I need to discuss a few things with you if you’re up to it, so I wondered if you’d like something from Mario’s to um, keep us going?’

‘Pannetone, two slices, toasted and buttered’ and a large cappuccino … if you don’t mind,’ Kuryakin added rather breathlessly, once again dragging himself up the sofa in anticipation of what appeared to be a forbidden treat.

‘Um, right’ Napoleon replied, storing the reaction in the mental filing cabinet he had hopefully labelled ‘new partner’.  Be back shortly.’

 

Illya heard the door click and relaxed back onto the sofa, the ringing steps on the stairs fading to a reassuring bang of the front door.  He glanced round the room, wondering what had possessed him to ask someone he hardly knew to help him furnish an apartment he hardly cared about.  It was difficult though to repress a feeling of something akin to excitement rising within him, however much he might seek to push it down to a place in his psyche named self control.

 

His first few months in New York had seemingly confirmed what Beldon had beaten into him in London; that there were to be no special friendships in UNCLE, no lasting relationships or private lovers in his world any more.  A life of solitary dedication was what he had signed up for.  And yet here was this man, after virtually ignoring him, then nearly causing his premature death, suddenly forcing his way into this neatly ordered lifestyle Illya had committed himself to and giving him the very clear message that a partnership, a relationship was in the making.

 

He closed his eyes again, speculating what Napoleon had come to discuss.  He had been allowed to leave Medical early only because he had agreed to Betty and Marge supervising his recovery, an arrangement which he now wondered wasn’t infinitely worse than if he had stayed on the Medical Unit.  Until Napoleon had arrived he had received no other communication from UNCLE, only a couple of visits from one of the doctors, the conversation being purely about his health and treatment.

 

‘You are lucky, Mr Kuryakin’ one doctor had opined from the end of his bed,  ‘there appears to be no lasting neurological damage and the injuries to your face and ribs are healing satisfactorily.  You will need to attend Mr Garwood’s dental clinic however for some more extensive work to your teeth.’  Illya sucked the top row of cracked teeth in his mouth at the thought of it. 

 

A door banging shut and some crashing in the kitchen announced that the American was back.  Marge and Betty’s extremely boring diet of soft food and lukewarm drinks were about to be circumvented.  The _pannetone_ proved perfectly digestible even with a row of broken teeth and Napoleon was tactful enough not to draw attention to Illya’s rather ungainly sucking and munching, probably, as Kuryakin concluded, because he felt at least partially responsible.

 

****  


 

After the coffee, Napoleon sat down in the low chair again and drew out a file, edging Illya’s glasses towards him from the little table by the side of the sofa. 

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Solo began, taking the remaining china from Illya and offering him a napkin he had unexpectedly found in the kitchen.

‘Depends what ‘this’ is’ Kuryakin grunted, wincing slightly at the residual pain emanating from his gums.

 

Napoleon opened the file and looked at the first page of the notes he had spent a considerable time putting together through many long, dark nights at his new job on the Berlin desk.  The fallout after the mission had resulted in this posting, a job which Solo’s very good German and experience of Berlin had qualified him for, but which he found excruciatingly boring.  Napoleon hadn’t seen Waverly since the evening he had appeared in Medical, and to all extents and purposes, it was Grant Chesters who now seemed to be deciding his fate, or so it seemed from the cursory conversations he had had with the senior agent.

‘You’re here until further notice, Solo’ he had said airily, with a smirking nod to his partner standing behind Solo’s desk.  ‘When your partner’s well enough, we’ll make some more permanent arrangements.’ 

 

While Illya cleaned his glasses on the napkin Napoleon’s gaze was drawn fortuitously to the lamp which stood on the table by the sofa.  Something about the way it stood on its base seemed wrong to him; unbalanced.  Ignoring Illya’s expression he lifted it up and turned it over, extracting the small piece of metal wedged underneath.

‘I’m sure I can fathom the intricacies of your last six expense accounts, Napoleon’ Illya said rather loudly, ‘even if you will insist on not separating personal from business expenditure.’  Napoleon smiled.  The Russian had a sense of humour it appeared.

 

 Holding the listening device gingerly in one hand, he walked silently over to a table in the corner, upon which stood a radio which Napoleon judged to have been put together in the steam age.  He carefully placed it on the table and then turned the radio on.  It appeared to be tuned to a Russian speaking station, the presenters having a particularly furious discussion on the merits of the last four recordings of Tchaikovsky’s fifth symphony. 

‘They’ll be able to hear that we’re talking but they shouldn’t be able to make out anything worth recording’ Napoleon said, resuming his place by the sofa. 

‘And _they_ are….?’ 

Napoleon frowned and opened the file.

 

‘How much do you know about my previous partners?’ he began, looking up.  Illya frowned a little and shrugged.

‘Um, they all came to a not very happy end?’   

‘You could say that.  I’d like to say I won’t bore you with the details, but if what I believe is true, the details may be important’ Napoleon said rather obliquely, handing the first sheet to Kuryakin.  Illya pushed his glasses up his nose a little and started to read, a machine like concentration etched on his face.  After several minutes and several sheets of paper later, he lay back.

‘I concur with your analysis of what went wrong with these missions and how the various weaknesses of your previous partners were exploited’ Illya murmured.  ‘Obviously to me at least, it looks like a sophisticated plan to de-stabilise the career of the only man who is considered a threat to their plans.’ 

 

Suddenly, and with considerable difficulty, he twisted his body and swung his legs round until he was sitting opposite Napoleon.

‘That’s better.’  Napoleon was struck by the amount of weight Kuryakin had lost in the month since the mission had so spectacularly misfired.  It was obvious he was normally an extremely physically fit man, but it was Kuryakin’s prodigious mind that Solo required at this moment in time; the body building could come later.

‘So, your hypothesis is that, without being paranoid, Napoleon, someone is out to get you.’  Illya smiled, his broken teeth giving him a kind of roguish look you might see in the average teenage street kid in Brooklyn.  ‘That may be the case, but I think that in the laws of Physics, when something is removed, the vacuum needs to be filled.’

 

Napoleon nodded and handed him another piece of paper. 

‘We’re obviously reading from the same script’ he said, his spirits beginning to rise suddenly.  It was easy with this man; he seemed to be on the same wavelength despite the absurdity of the premise Solo was laying before him.  Illya removed his glasses and stared directly at Napoleon.

‘As well as destroying your career and possibly mine, another career has to be enhanced to fill the gap’ he began, glancing round at the radio to check that the programme was still doing its task of blotting out any other conversations in the room. ‘ Someone competent but unimaginative, someone who a certain organisation deems able to be turned has to replace you, and I don’t mean some hoary plastic surgery scheme either’ he added, ‘although I wouldn’t put that past them one day.  No, this man has been helped both to advance his own career and to derail yours, and I think we both know who that person most probably is.’

 

Napoleon reached into his briefcase and drew out another, larger file.  The cover was plain, but the origin of its contents was unmistakeable from the logo stamped at the head of each piece of paper.  Illya’s eyebrows drew upwards a little and his lips twitched slightly as Napoleon handed him the file.

‘Where did you get this, if that is not an obvious question’ he said, beginning to read.

Despite being labelled a pariah by some in his organisation, Napoleon’s abilities were not in doubt at least to himself, and there were still a few at UNCLE who were prepared to trust him without question.  Luck played a part as well.  It was luck which determined that Sabina Klose, a German agent whom Napoleon had worked with in Berlin, happened to be in New York and naturally headed straight to the German desk.

‘What are you doing here darling?’ she had started, putting her arm round his neck and reading the report he had just finished from the previous week’s monotonous round of Stasi training sessions and endless interrogations.

‘Snooping on the snoopers of course’ he had said wearily, brightened none the less by her sheer _joie de vie_. 

They had left the building separately, and after meeting up in a bar in the Village had spent the evening in a downtown restaurant while he explained his current lamentable situation to her. 

‘If you need me to do a little investigative work for you, _liebling_ , then just say the word’ she had offered.  ‘we will defeat the _schwein, ja_?’ 

He had nodded, the thought of the _schwein,_ whoever they were, being defeated, cheering him.

 

‘I have at least one other friend in our organisation who trusts me’ he began, ‘and who was able to copy these without any alarms being raised.  May I present to you the life and career of Grant Jackson Chesters.’  Illya flipped open the cover of the file.

‘There must be at least fifty pages of this stuff’ he said, looking down the first sheet, scanning a short resume of the contents which Napoleon had appended. 

‘I’ll leave it with you, but find somewhere safe for it that whoever planted the little device over there won’t find too easily.’  Illya frowned, his hair covering his eyebrows before he absent-mindedly brushed it away.

‘I was thinking that too.  If you wouldn’t mind, Napoleon, could you retrieve my sports bag from under my bed?’

 

Kuryakin’s bedroom resembled the Spartan tidiness of his living room. A single bed pushed against the wall with a small table beside it containing a neat stack of books Napoleon wouldn’t have considered bedtime reading.  A single wardrobe and a narrow chest of drawers completed the furniture, all providing evidence of a man who moved through life pretty well unencumbered by the goods most other people thought desirable if not vital.  Under the bed a black sports bag lurked, sharing a space with another pile of academic journals and a few more vinyls.  Napoleon made a mental comparison with his own apartment and smiled at the utter, utter contrast.

 

Illya had managed to turn off the radio and put on another record by the time he returned.  Adjusting the volume to high, he returned the listening device to its original home before turning the music down again. 

 

‘Um, I’ll be fit enough to start the dental work next week’ he said over the lamp, ‘so I’ll give you my verdict on the expenses sheets then, alright?’,  before taking the sports bag from Napoleon and turning it over.  After squeezing two points on the edges of its hard base, Illya pulled it open.

‘I don’t think anybody is going to find the file here’ he whispered, taking the papers and stuffing them in, before closing the secret opening and handing the bag back to Napoleon.  ‘I think I’ll be ready for a spot of light training too’ he added, revealing the broken teeth, ‘once they’ve made me presentable again.’

‘Talking of presentable’ Napoleon ventured cautiously, ‘I would prefer it if we don’t draw attention to ourselves in any way …’  Illya put his hand up to his head and raked his hair back.

‘I know, I know’ he said wearily. ‘I promise, when my teeth are fixed …’

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

Laboratories the world over shared a kind of identical distasteful nature, Napoleon decided, looking round.  It wasn’t just the look of the place either.  The furniture, the inevitable equipment and indecipherable equations written on the walls were bad enough; it was the total sensory experience of it all.  The questionable smells, the worrying solutions these people were concocting.  Or maybe it was because he had been in too many of these places where people were bent on doing harm, either to him or to others. 

 

It was the time of day when most of Kuryakin’s co-workers in this particular laboratory hadn’t yet arrived, leaving just Napoleon and their new criminal associate in sole residence. 

‘Where is this new man in your life then, darling?’ Sabi enquired, managing to cross her extremely long and shapely legs whilst simultaneously perching on a lab stool.  Napoleon looked at his watch.

‘He must have been held up at Garwood’s clinic’ he said, taking in her legs.  ‘It’s been a heavy couple of weeks in the teeth department for him.’ 

 

They were interrupted by the mechanical click and swish of the laboratory door.  The marks of bruising in its final stages combined with a swollen mouth and a recent haircut combined to give the Russian an intimidating aura which raised Sabi’s eyebrows and brought a knowing smirk to Napoleon’s lips.

 

‘Illya, may I present Miss Sabina Klose.  Sabi, this is Illya Kuryakin.’  Illya nodded his head imperceptibly at Sabi, before going over to a metal locker in the corner and pulling out the same gym bag he had stuffed Napoleon’s ‘research’ into two weeks previously.  After pulling out the file he went over to the bench and bent over it, checking something before returning to the other two agents.  It was immediately obvious to Napoleon that Illya Kuryakin did not flirt, or so it seemed.

 

****  


 

Sabi, however, didn’t seem to be offended; in fact her smile indicated something very different to Napoleon. 

‘It’s nothing personal’ he murmured in her direction, ‘he’s just a bit pre-occupied at the moment.’  She continued to smile as Kuryakin, seemingly oblivious, laid out the papers in front of them.

‘Illya Kuryakin’ she almost purred, only the minutest flutter of Kuryakin’s eyes acknowledging her voice, ‘Katerina told me about you.’  Illya’s hands stopped and finally he looked up, a rather soft smile breaking the rather tense atmosphere in the room and showcasing a rather beautiful row of pearly white teeth.

‘Um … do you mean .. Katerina of the Berlin office?’ he said hesitantly.  ‘Do you know her well?’  Sabi sat back, a much broader smile breaking out.

‘Of course darling.  She is my partner.’

‘Oh.  I see.’

 

Napoleon wondered whether he did actually see, but decided to leave that one for later.  Whether or not Illya understood the true nature of the girls’ relationship, the atmosphere in the room now felt comfortable to Napoleon, even conspiratorial.  He drew up the lab stool to the bench, glancing at the door momentarily.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve locked it.  Besides they’ll be delayed indefinitely; some kind of breakfast leaving party for one of the technicians’ Kuryakin mumbled, leaning on the bench just to the side of Sabi.

‘And you’re not invited?’ Napoleon enquired, getting his answer from Illya’s silence and downward glance. 

 

They all leaned forward towards the papers, Napoleon scanning Kuryakin’s legible handwritten notes pencilled in down the pages.

‘So, sum it up for me please?’ Sabi said, glancing from side to side, before returning her gaze to the writing.

Napoleon twisted round, aware, before he spoke of his partner’s acquiescence to his conclusions, judging from what the Russian had appended to the sheets of paper in front of him.

‘OK.  Our target was recruited, like myself, from the military and went through Survival School about three years before me.  He passed out with moderate success but nothing special, and was paired with the same partner he has to this day.  His first year in Section Two was unremarkable.  In fact at the end of that year, according to his records, there was a discussion about his suitability for the Section, and a suggestion that Section Three might be a more, let’s say, appropriate place.  Interestingly, that idea was overruled by someone in Section One.’

‘Someone not revealed in his records’ Illya added quietly.

‘Indeed.  Just after that, things took a remarkable turn for the better for our man.  Missions that had been barely successful suddenly seemed to go with a swing and his success rate rocketed.  All of a sudden he was ‘UNCLE agent of the year’.

 

Sabi grasped his arm.

‘Do they have that award in the New York office?’ she burst out, Illya’s eyes going heavenward.

‘Napoleon would like it to be so, but no’ he replied.  Pursing his lips,  Napoleon continued.

‘If we agree that this sudden rise to success is a little difficult to believe, then, being the naturally suspicious people Illya and I both are, it leads us to the conclusion that ..’

‘He’s getting help from somewhere’ Illya concluded.  Sabi nodded her head slowly, and then put her arms comfortingly round those of the men either side of her.

‘I have a very good idea who this man is’ she said slowly, leaning towards Illya and whispering something in his ear.  Illya turned his head a little and stared at her.

‘Clever German’ he murmured, smiling.  He shifted his position slightly and looked at Napoleon. 

‘But if we have noticed, why hasn’t anybody else?’ she added. 

‘Well, maybe they have, but they’ve either been ignored, overruled ..’

‘Or got rid of’ Illya said.  The usual laboratory sounds continued for a few moments as the three agents reflected on the last few statements.  Eventually Napoleon spoke.

‘I don’t know if you realise, but Waverly was absent during the time of our man’s review, and Conrad Failinger was in charge.’

‘Do you mean the Failinger who eventually …’

‘The very one.  After his rather sudden exit from this world, Waverly was brought back from that UN commission he was on, but by that time, our CEO was in place of course, and besides that, his record was so stellar, I imagine it was hard to argue a case for shifting him, even if Waverly had wanted to.’

 

Sabi leaned down and retrieved her bag, rooting around in it until she found something, which she handed to Illya with a knowing look.

‘Katerina sent this for you, darling.  She said you’d be missing it here.’  Illya frowned then carefully opened the package with a dawning recognition of what it might contain.  It was three bars of chocolate, their wrappers immediately indicating a Swiss dark variety a universe away from that offered in the UNCLE canteen.  He looked at it almost lovingly, before taking up one bar and breaking some off.

‘Mr Garwood tells me that I can eat anything from tonight, so for the moment I will enjoy your good fortune vicariously’ he said, offering them each a piece.  ‘Tell Katerina, thank you’ he added simply, before turning and putting the rest of the chocolate in some hidden place for future enjoyment.

 

They ate the chocolate while Illya attended to something at the other side of the lab, perhaps, Napoleon thought, not wanting to witness their pleasure in the dark bitter beauty of it. 

‘Of course you realise Napoleon, that this means a number of THRUSH personnel have been sacrificed on the altar of getting Chesters to the position he now enjoys’ Illya said, returning to his place next to Sabi.

‘Absolutely.  An indication of how much importance they attach to getting him there.’

‘And getting you out, darling’ Sabi added, glancing at Napoleon.

‘Quite.  The question is now, what do we do about it?  If I’m just imagining it and go to Waverly here, either my career could be over very quickly or a good man’s career could be seriously questioned.  If I’m right and Chesters gets to hear of our little plan, then we could all be finished, and I’m not just talking career here either.’

 

Illya dragged round another lab stool and sat facing them. 

‘You are not just imagining it, and it would be dangerous, bordering on suicidal to go to Waverly here.  I don’t know about you Napoleon, but I am prepared to gamble on the fact that Waverly is trustworthy, and also has some concerns about our colleague.  If we all agree, I would suggest that you arrange a meeting with him, but outside these walls.’

 

The phone rang, startling them.  Kuryakin got up and picked up the receiver, his face reflecting something unpleasant coming down the line.

‘Yes, I’ll come now.  I’m sorry, yes _sir_.’  He put down the receiver and returned to his place.

‘It was Chesters’ he said rather flatly.  ‘He wants to discuss something with me.’

‘And he made you call him sir?  Jeez.’  Napoleon blew out his lips and stood up, helping Sabi off the stool.

‘Okay, if it’s agreed, Sabi and I will cook up something between us and arrange a meeting with Waverly.  We’ll meet again this evening; I’ll let you know where, and you can let me know what our friend was so anxious to talk about.’

 

********************

 

Late afternoon in East Village reflected Illya’s mood; a kind of tired heat seemed to be radiating relentlessly from every hard surface vertical or horizontal, rolling over those who needed to be making for somewhere out of it.  He felt his shirt first grip and then refuse to be parted from his torso, Illya fixing a mental picture of an extremely cold shower into his head as he dragged himself up the stairs towards his apartment.

 

Only in the shower was he able to reflect on the events of the day; the discussion in his lab, and then later, his interview with Grant Chesters.  He felt his shoulders lock and his lips form a thin line at the thought of it, before catching sight of something stuck to the mirror over the sink facing the shower.

It was a typically Soloian touch; a Durex packet, the message rolled up inside the one condom inside.

 

_Cooled down now?  I think we should meet with Congressman Cox in the park around five._

 

Illya’s lips twitched.  He put down the packet and its message, and then grabbing a towel, wound it round himself and headed for his bedroom.  Since Betty and Marge’s exit from his life, he had tried to maintain the pristine condition of the clothes they had cleaned and pressed and that he had made a huge fuss about them touching, but secretly thanked them for.  In his closet there now lay a mysteriously increased number of white shirts, underwear and black socks, but it was the grey polo shirt he now reached for, dragging it on and then finding and adding a pair of black linen trousers he hadn’t known he owned.  Walking into the kitchen he reached for a glass and drank several glasses of water before retrieving Napoleon’s note, and then, after finishing dressing, returning to the street.

 

He could see Solo sitting facing one side of the statue, his hands behind his neck to protect him from the railings behind him, in silent contemplation of the figure in front.  Congressman Cox’s arm was raised as if admonishing the Russian for being a little late to the meeting.  Tompkins Square Park, an elm shaded place not far from Illya’s apartment and usually the favourite dwelling place of hippies and the homeless, wasn’t a bad choice for a meeting, he decided.  He couldn’t quite see Grant Chesters, whose clothes and hair made even Solo look a little less than perfectly groomed, hanging out in a place like this.  Still, complacency could kill, and there had been enough partners removed from active service without him adding to the number.  He glanced around furtively, and seeing no obvious suspects, continued on his way towards the recumbent American.

 

Napoleon’s eyes slid sideways, and then, after a slight smirk of the lips, his attention returned to the statue.

‘I see you found my message.’

‘Yes; obviously something you had to hand.’ 

‘So, how was your little _tête à tête_ with our man in charge? 

 

Chesters had been sitting at his desk when Illya arrived, the slightly lower chair in front of it attempting to give some kind of psychological superiority to the man behind the desk, or so Illya imagined.  He hesitated in some kind of homage to respect, before Chesters, without really looking up waved him to the seat.  After a few more tedious moments of silence as Chesters wrote something on a pad, he eventually looked up.  Illya worked hard not to smile at the American’s disappointment.  His appearance was usually the first thing Chesters berated him for, but today even his hair was almost beyond criticism.

 

****  


 

Chesters reached into his desk and drew out a file unfamiliar to Illya. 

‘I’ve been keeping a few personal notes about agents in Section II’ he began, ‘personal’ obviously meaning not for others, including Waverly’s eyes.  Illya managed a polite, interested look, or so he hoped.  ‘You seem to have got over the effects of the last mess you two made of things’ he said, glancing at Illya and then down again at the pad.

‘Yes, I’m fully recovered now, thank you’ Illya murmured monosyllabically.  Chesters made a show of flicking through the file before slamming it shut and leaning back in his chair.

‘I’ve been thinking about you two’ he began, Illya almost biting his tongue to stop a reply which might have alluded to his opinion of Chesters’ judgement.  ‘I’m going to suggest to Waverly that you be permanently re-assigned to Section VIII, Kuryakin.  After all, the kind of life we agents have in Section II, well, it’s kind of a waste for a man with your obvious scientific talents, and besides, you don’t seem to be comfortable with the kind of people we have to mix with.’ 

 

‘What did he mean by that?’ Napoleon interrupted, shaking his head at the statue.

‘I think he meant I wasn’t very good at being suave and seductive at exclusive gatherings’ Illya said, shrugging his shoulders.  ‘He’s obviously been reading one too many James Bond books.  Shall I go on?’

 

‘May I ask what is going to happen to Mr Solo?’ Illya replied, deciding to ignore Chesters’ attempts at Russian bating.  He detected a poorly disguised look of hatred combined with real fear on the American’s face. 

‘Oh, I think Mr Solo’s days in Section II are numbered’ Chesters said.  ‘Section III could do with some additional foot men, if you take my drift.’

 

‘I think he’s very confident of his position but he’s scared of you’ Illya said, after he had waited for Napoleon’s anger to subside.  ‘Unlike me, he finds it rather difficult to hide his feelings.  Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that we are being allowed to assist them in one last mission before we are ‘reassigned.’

‘I know.  Waverly told me’ Napoleon replied.

 

They had met further downtown, in a restaurant popular with the Financial District workers who populated Wall St and its surrounds.  He had caught Waverly in transit between UNCLE and a late morning meeting which Napoleon had seen pencilled in on his secretary’s diary as he had engaged her in the usual sort of semi chat-up conversation he found pretty effortless and she found mildly diverting.  Waverly had agreed almost instantly, suggesting the meeting place as if he had already arranged it.

 

For once, Napoleon had felt nervous as he approached the table.  The meeting felt like some kind of turning point, both for him and his latest, and he hoped, permanent partner, if that word were appropriate in his profession.  He had waited for the menu and the drinks to arrive before beginning, his story only interrupted by the serving of the food by a waiter who appeared to have been pre-warned to leave them alone where possible.  Waverly remained silent for almost the whole time, only stopping Solo to clarify one or two minor points along the way.  After he had finished, Solo noticed that his food had remained largely uneaten.  He took a relatively large gulp of wine and waited for Waverly’s verdict.

 

‘So, what was his verdict?’ Illya said, after Napoleon had paused for what felt like an inordinately long time.

 

The wait had been agonising.  Waverly did the predictable thing; after rummaging in his jacket, he retrieved a pipe, and then set about lighting it, the waiter in a synchronous action removing Napoleon’s uneaten food and substituting an expresso in front of him, a delicate cup of china tea in front of his superior.  Solo forced himself to take up and sip the coffee, the background sounds of the restaurant dulling as he focussed on Waverly’s slow sucking motions on the pipe.

 

‘Well Mr Solo, it seems we have a serious situation on our hands’ Waverly began, Napoleon trying hard not to be overwhelmed by the cascade of relief washing over him at these few words.

‘Sir?’

Waverly gave the pipe a few more draws before putting it down.

‘As you know, I was on secondment to the United Nations when this all began’ he started again.  ‘It sometimes pays to just observe the situation for a while, but I think the time has now come to act, don’t you?’  Napoleon frowned slightly.  Following Waverly’s rather obtuse way of talking was often a little challenging, but he felt a growing confidence that his premise had been accepted.  He sat up a little and drew out a cigarette.

 

‘I think Mr Chesters will have briefed Mr Kuryakin by now and I’m sure he can fill you in with the details, but suffice it to say, if what we believe is true, this mission will be a watershed for us all.  Fail here, Mr Solo, and there could be serious consequences for UNCLE in general, and for you and Mr Kuryakin in particular.’

 

Illya, in a strangely similar action to that of Waverly only a few hours before, rummaged in his jacket, but the result this time was a small object wrapped in foil.  He opened it carefully and revealed a small square of cake.

‘Ah, the last of Betty’s chocolate brownies’ he murmured, before consuming it, wiping the crumbs from his mouth as Napoleon sighed in impatience. 

‘I think it is near enough ‘tonight’ for us to find a restaurant’ Illya began again, ‘where you can now eat something in the confidence of having some support from Mr Waverly and I can make up for a great deal of lost time.  Then I’ll tell you about a remarkable scientific formula and a very clever but very strange lady who is responsible for it.’

 

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

The restaurant was predictable, but the food not, Kuryakin choosing small portions of delicious but not overwhelming dishes from his homeland. 

‘Aha, _Chicken Kyev’_ Napoleon pronounced, his appetite suddenly returning with the natural optimism he could usually rely on but which had lately been severely dented.  Illya looked up from perusing the dish in front of him.

‘Yes, the Ukrainians and the Russians argue over the heritage of this dish, but really, what matters is the taste’ he said, delicately stabbing the chicken breast and watching the satisfying mixture inside flow out.  After watching his partner begin to attack the _Kyev_ with gusto, Napoleon returned his gaze to his own meal and for the next few minutes they ate in companionable silence.

 

After enjoying two dishes of _Varennya,_ a delicate mixture of berries stewed in a subtle syrup, Kuryakin drew out a pen and wrote something on a paper napkin.

‘And that is …’

‘The molecular formula of Chlorophyll, a natural substance I’m sure even you have heard of, Napoleon.’  Napoleon declined to be drawn and waited for what he presumed could be the next piece of the mission jigsaw which his partner seemed to enjoy revealing piece by piece.

‘The object of our mission has, according to our sources in Cambridge, made a total synthesis of chlorophyll, which apparently is capable of generating Hydrogen from sea water.’

 

Napoleon scratched his chin.  He found Kuryakin’s serious intensity somewhat easy to wind up, a habit he knew he should try to curb, but at least for now, enjoyed too much to do so.

‘So that’s Cambridge, Massachusetts or Cambridge, England?’  It was difficult not to smile at the expression this evoked.

‘England of course.  Can we get on?’

‘Of course.  So, your scientist makes hydrogen out of her artificial chlorophyll in some way for what purpose?’  Napoleon easily recognised Illya’s ‘superior scientist’ look slot into place.  On the napkin, underneath the formula he wrote, _seawater + sunlight = hydrogen fuel cell._

‘In the right hands, this could be used to power homes and cars, and it doesn’t produce chlorine gas either.’

‘Gee that’s a relief’ Napoleon said waspishly.  He was suddenly serious.  ‘And in the wrong hands?’  . 

‘In the wrong hands, there are serious consequences even with the artificial chlorophyll alone.  For instance, I imagine one could cause devastating pollution to the world’s natural water sources if one so desired.’

‘Okay, so I get the importance of her discovery.  I guess then, our mission is to persuade her that we are the appropriate hands for her discovery to be in?’  Illya grimaced slightly.

‘Not quite us, Napoleon.  Remember, we are just being brought along for, well, Chesters’ purpose in taking the glory for this mission, if that is his intention.’

 

Illya glanced round and caught the attention of what seemed like the only person in charge of the restaurant, a squat, rather swarthy man lurking behind the bar opposite their booth, who seemed to know without words being uttered what was required.  In a few moments, two small glasses of something Napoleon knew immediately would cause him to cough appeared on the table.  Kuryakin rapidly consumed the drink, and then reached for the water, a highly carbonated variety which he downed with equal enthusiasm.

 

‘I haven’t drank anything stronger than this for weeks and I don’t want my mind to be anything less than crystal clear at the moment’ he explained, as Napoleon recovered from his shot. 

‘So, you’re not sure of his intentions?’  Illya took another gulp of water and then put down his glass.

‘No, I’m not.  Either, as we’ve both seen, he is continuing his inexorable rise to the top of UNCLE by achieving success in everything he does, or …’

‘He or someone else has decided that this particular scientific discovery is too important to just hand over to UNCLE.’  Illya smiled.

‘Exactly.’

 

‘So, what exactly is our so-called role in this, according to our new boss?’  Illya licked his lips and sighed a little.

‘I’m afraid your role is purely security, Napoleon; as Chesters said, ‘a foot man’, but this should give you enough anonymity to be a little more creative with your new position’ Illya replied. 

‘And your role?’

‘My role, of course, is to provide the scientific back-up; that is to check that the formula is correct.  However, knowing Professor Rohde as I do, obtaining the formula may be slightly more complex than Grant Chesters imagines.’  Napoleon stared at his partner slightly.

‘You know this woman?’  He saw something slide across the Russian’s features and then disappear before his usual expression reasserted itself.

 

Veronica Rohde had been married to his PhD supervisor, but they had separated, Illya only aware of it from the comments of others in the department.  Richard Planer was an excellent physicist and teacher, but he had few interests outside the world of Quantum Mechanics and nobody except Illya seemed surprised when news of the break-up eventually became common knowledge.  Illya had come to know Veronica Rohde socially, meeting her at college occasions, but also at music concerts and more frequently at the jazz society to which they both belonged.  It was here that she was at her most flamboyant, the world of test tubes and white coats another planet from the woman she appeared as there. The relationship, as he saw it, had started to develop in a rather one sided way until he made his feelings clear and she had retreated.

 

‘She’s, er, very interesting’ he began hesitantly, noting Napoleon’s almost wolfish latching on to his words.

 

 

 

She was of mixed heritage, Vietnamese and English, her father a rather reclusive psychologist who had brought her mother from the East to rural England before the war, an exotic flower amidst the pig farmers of those vast flat lands.  Her mother was an artist, producing vast painted murals in bright jewel colours which were spread throughout the house on the occasions Illya visited.  Veronica inherited her father’s scientific brilliance and her mother’s artistic abilities, as well as her glamorous and outlandish ways. 

 

‘So, she’s artistic as well as scientific?’

Illya felt he was being probed, but there was no choice but to continue.

‘Um, in a way.  She became very interested in, um, body art, if you take my meaning.’  Napoleon coughed, this time not needing the drink as a reason.

‘Really?  What, on others or herself?’  Illya frowned.  He could see he was revealing more than he intended.  He began to appreciate just why Napoleon was reputed to be such a good interrogator.

‘Um, well, on herself, but also on others.  She did become quite, er, proficient in that area.’  Napoleon felt himself beginning to enjoy the Russian’s discomfort and decided to file that away for future reference. 

‘So, how does this fit in with the science thing?’ 

‘According to Chesters’ source in Cambridge, as soon as she realised the import of her discovery she apparently destroyed all her written records, or at least anything which contained the formula.  However, she did tell Richard, Dr Planer that is, that she intended to retain the formula in some way.’

‘What, memorised?’

Illya shook his head.  ‘Possibly, but I think, knowing Veronica, she would want to record it physically somewhere.  Her condition means that eventually her mind will become locked in a useless body.’  He looked down for a moment, the grim reality of Veronica Rohde’s condition rendering him silent.

‘What condition?’

‘It appears that Dr Rohde has a form of Motor Neurone Disease’ Illya said baldly.

‘Jeez.  I’m sorry.’  He drank some water slowly, watching his partner.  Despite their short working history, it seemed easy to Napoleon to perceive when his partner needed space, either physical or mental.

‘So where is it?’  Napoleon’s question, after a long period of silence jerked Illya’s head back up.  He exhaled, a long slow breath outwards.

‘She is artistic of course, so …’

‘You’re joking.  She has the formula on her body?’

‘I’m not entirely certain but yes, possibly.’

Napoleon blew out his cheeks and took a sip of water.

‘So why didn’t she just write it down, like normal people, if you could ever call scientists normal’ he added.  Illya scowled slightly.

‘It’s all about control, Napoleon.  If she has it on her body, then she is controlling access, or so she thinks. Effectively, it can’t be taken from her.  This is so typical of her’ he added in a rather exasperated tone. ‘Of course, knowing our adversaries as we do, we know that that is far from the truth.’ 

   

‘Does Chesters know you know her?’ Napoleon said at last.  Illya, after a brief consideration of something, looked over towards the bar.

‘I think we need this, clear heads or no.  The answer to your question is no, he doesn’t know yet, but sooner or later he may work out the connection.  In any case, he thinks he can persuade her to give him the formula, and I am just there to check it’s kosher.’

‘Well that’s going to be an interesting little scenario’ Napoleon said, downing his shot.  Illya leaned back into his seat, something drifting through his mind that was not about to be shared.

‘Quite.  I understand the ‘scenario’ as you put it may be as exotic as Professor Rohde.  Apparently there is to be a weekend party for the _beat generation_ in Tangier, at which Veronica will be attending.  She’s very much a part of the European scene there.  You know, aesthetes, bon vivants, literati, drinky-poos, beautiful people with nothing to do except gardening and dining out’ Illya added, sighing audibly.

‘Ah yes, what was it Capote said ..’

‘ _Tangier is a basin that holds you.  A timeless place; the days slide by less noticed than foam in a waterfall’_. 

Napoleon smiled.  ‘My kind of place then.’

 

 

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 

****  


 

The quayside was busy; in fact it was thronged with people.  Most were awaiting the docking of the boat from Tarifa that brought the two men to this most exotic of places. To Solo, it felt like another world from the continent they had left a few, frantic days before.  They had not been part of the briefing session Chesters and Steele had shared with Waverly, but in effect they might as well have been there.  Waverly, seeming to relish a return to his old espionage days, had enjoyed a brief spot of dead letter dropping in a more salubrious section of Central Park, Sabi picking up the details just in case the other two agents might have been more closely followed.  But they were not.  It appeared that, at least to Grant Chesters, both Solo and Kuryakin were in a place he wanted them to be.  As Napoleon carefully packed his case, he reflected on the kind of arrogance that allowed someone considered to be one’s greatest threat to come along on a mission, albeit in a pretty lowly role.  After carefully cleaning his Walther, he added an extra clip into the compartment of his case.  Whatever Chesters intended the outcome of this mission to be, he intended to be alive at the end of it, and he intended his partner to be still standing too.

 

They were travelling separately, and less comfortably than the other two Section Two agents.  Chesters and Steele, after an easy flight to Tangier, would no doubt now be ensconced in the very luxurious hotel they had booked themselves into, whilst he and Illya made do with something a little less grand.  Kuryakin had spoken little during the journey, a habit Napoleon would later pick up and appreciate, but for now, unused to a partner so self-contained, his growing sense of anxiety about the mission remained unrelieved, at least by the silent man now standing beside him.

 

He pointed down the long dock in the direction of the city.  The relentless sun pounded onto a myriad structure of little houses and streets cascading down steep hills towards the sea, the scene punctuated by the sight of a very English looking church poking out between the other, Moorish buildings.  A man, obviously a Moroccan, wearing traditional dress and a distinctive pair of babouches with delicately curling ends on his feet, approached at great speed.   His dark beady eyes seemed fixed on the two obvious looking foreigners, Illya in particular standing out from the crowd like a blond beacon in a dark skinned, dark eyed sea.

 

Up close their guide, whose name was Kazmi, displayed a set of immaculate, and very large white teeth, while shaking their hands with a vigour that left Illya with a rueful smile on his face and a slightly aching arm.

‘Welcome, welcome, you are very welcome, thank you very much’ he began, as they started to force their way along the quayside and up a steep road with a series of steps up each side.  Kazmi, not appearing to draw breath between sentences,  gave them a detailed and unasked for but interesting guide to the city, every sentence interspersed with the ‘thank you very much’ mantra.   

 

Their lodgings, though not very promising from the street, turned out to be a tiny oasis of calm amidst the bustle and at times, sheer madness of the city.  Set inside a plain white wall a very solid looking door gave way to a beautifully tiled and lush garden surrounded by a series of rooms all cooled by the interior court on one side and giving views of the sea on the other.  A woman, who appeared to be related to Kazmi, or Ibrahim as they now were told to call him, appeared from a dark room at one corner of the garden, her teeth a less perfect version of his, and somewhat more demure in her greetings.

 

Ibrahim bowed to them once more, before thrusting a note in their hands and disappearing through the external door with a final ‘thank you very much’ on his lips.  Napoleon pushed up his sunglasses and squeezed his eyes together, before tearing open the envelope.  Inside, on the hotel’s headed notepaper, there was a note from Chesters in his usual loopy script.

 

Hope you had a nice trip.  Continental – 6.00pm, then drinks at the Burton-Fannings. Look smart. G.

 

Kuryakin leaned across, and took a long, laconic look at the note.

‘We’d better get cleaned up then.  If it’s anything like Veronica told me, then it’ll be endless cashmere, peacocks galore, and the kind of ludicrous tittle-tattle only reserved for those far from home and in love with themselves.’ 

‘Oh I don’t know, it could turn out to be quite entertaining’ Solo retorted.  ‘It’ll be nice for you to get up close and personal with your friend again.’

 

Napoleon was satisfied with the mild flush that resulted from his last sentence, giving an added richness to the havoc the sun had already begun to play with the Russian’s face.  Kuryakin, composure re-asserted turned away, following the woman, whose name was Amina, into the cool shadows of his room before shutting the door firmly against Napoleon and any other potentially embarrassing comments.

 

******************

 

They were waiting for them on the huge terrace which fronted the Continental Hotel.  Its old world charms gave onto an endless view of the town, the harbour and then glittering in the evening sun, the endless, calm sea.  Napoleon gave his partner a subtle dig in the ribs at the clothes both Chesters and Steele were wearing, the sort of linen, straw hat and casual scarf ensemble that they imagined made them fit in with those who frequented this polyglot city.  Kuryakin had chosen more informal wear, dark navy trousers and a soft white shirt.  Napoleon wondered if he realised just how attractive he looked in them, the slightly irritated stare of Norbert Steele confirming his opinion as they slid into their seats facing the other two agents and helped themselves to drinks from the tray between them.

 

Grant Chesters drew out a cigarette and lit up, a sideways glance watching for any reaction from the Russian, who, apart from moving his chair slightly back, refused to give him any satisfaction. 

‘OK, let’s go over this evening’ Chesters began, flicking ash into an ashtray by his drink.  ‘Norbert and I will be focussing on Professor Rohde, obviously, so just be available, Kuryakin, if the lady decides to tell all.  Apparently she’s got a thing about trust; that is she doesn’t trust anyone, so it may take all my natural charm to squeeze it out of her.’  He grinned at his partner, whose slight nod and smile presumably signalled his agreement.  ‘Solo, I want you outside; I wanna know who comes in and who leaves, and when, right?’ 

‘Naturally.’  If Solo was either annoyed or humiliated by this he didn’t show it, Illya thought, but inside he felt deep indignation for his partner.  He allowed a tiny involuntary sigh to escape his lips before returning his attention to Chesters.

‘Um, so you think Professor Rohde has the formula with her?’ he enquired, trying to draw out Chesters without revealing what he knew, which seemed infinitely more than the man opposite.  Chesters smirked.

‘I certainly hope so, otherwise there wouldn’t be much point in you coming along, would there?’ he said cuttingly.  ‘In what form of course, I’m not exactly sure, seeing that she burnt all her research, but once we start getting a little more acquainted, no doubt she’ll fill me in.  Then all you have to do is to check it over and we can all get out of this stinking dump.’

 

Illya risked a glance over at his partner, who was drumming a silent beat on the arm of the chair next to him.  Not for the first time he wondered how the man facing him had actually attained the position he was in, considering what a cultural moron he was.  He pondered on the number of minor THRUSH agents who must have been sacrificed on the altar of Grant Chesters.

 

The house of Mrs Burton-Fanning, horticulturalist and churchwarden of St Bartholomew’s Anglican Church, Tangiers, was approached through the usual tangle of streets, by entering the usual mysterious door in a wall, and then finally clambering through a beautiful garden, heady with the powerful scents and colours of the Mediterranean.  Illya decided that he had never seen a house so crammed with exotica of every type.  Huge Kelim rugs covered massive footstools and tiled floors, a vivid assortment of multi-patterned ceramics of all shapes were fixed to walls of intense colour which somehow intensified the exquisite patterns of the plates and bowls.  Books were piled everywhere.  The effect was of a hedonistic world which once entered, would prove extremely hard to leave.  Mrs BF, as she appeared to call herself, was no less exotic than her house and garden, a vibrant melange of silks wound round her ample body and head to give her the appearance of a rare creature only found in some dense, steamy place far from human habitation.

 

‘Oh my dears, did you get lost?’ she burst out, the word ‘lost’ coming out as ‘lorst’ as only Englishwomen like her would say.  She scooped up Chesters and Steele, allowing Napoleon to melt conveniently into the background.  Illya watched as the man whom he imagined would normally love these sorts of occasions, slip away into the evening shadows.  He was grateful to Mrs BF for her diversionary tactics, enabling him to survey the scene, take stock of the assembled guests, and look for one special guest in particular.

 

They were predictable in their eccentricity.  Not all were English.  A very flamboyant man called Umberto stood in a corner underneath some large tusks declaiming about some issue in Art History, an area of study Illya felt less than confident about.  A youngish couple in matching turquoise scarves seemed to be hanging on every word though.  Standing slightly away from them, another small group surrounded a tall, good looking man with an American accent, this time the subject being the novel he was hoping would soon be published.  They seemed a contented, relaxed bunch, content with each other and the beauty of the place which they inhabited. 

 

But there was no sign of Veronica.  Illya could see Chesters and Steele extricating themselves from Mrs BF, Grant Chesters looking round with the same question in his mind as Illya’s.  As he reached for a glass of what he hoped was an innocuous cocktail of some sort, he felt a hand firmly grip his arm.

‘You look like a little lamb lost, my dear.  Do come and meet some dear friends.’  Mrs BF had obviously finished with Chesters and Steele.  He felt her steely gaze upon him, a look of something approaching admiration of something on her face.

 

She propelled him into the group surrounding the Italian, all of them now diverting their gaze towards him.

‘My dears, this is Dr Kuryakin.  Don’t you think he’s the most marvellous shade of blond?  Before even Illya could cringe at the last remark, one of the two men wearing turquoise called Alexander, moved up close, his fingers running through Illya’s hair in a way reminiscent of someone testing the quality of silk.

‘Mm.  It can’t be natural, can it?’ 

‘Of course’.  There was a theatrical gasp from his companion, a very thin man named Perry.

‘O my God, Zander, a natural blond with the body of a demi-god!’  Illya looked round fairly desperately.  Despite a very short working relationship with Napoleon, he was becoming all too aware of the American’s habit of unmerciful teasing, but at this moment, he would trade a lifetime of Napoleon’s mockery for being saved from the attentions of this particular group.  He gave one last frantic look round the room before, with a sigh, returning to the conversation.

 

************************

 

Napoleon shifted a small chair from its hiding place by a gently running fountain, and sat down.  He had conducted a fairly swift self-guided tour of the house before returning to the garden. He found the other rooms as overflowing and exuberant as the one he had left Kuryakin in a little time before.  A rapid perusal of the assembled party had assured him that Professor Rohde was not with the others, and surprisingly, she was not to be found in any of the bedrooms either.

 

He took out his cigarette case and selected a cigarette, searching in his pocket for his lighter.  He had begun to smoke more in the last year, but the prospect of something better in his life combined with his new partner’s surprising and obvious hatred for smoking had contrived to reduce his habit more recently.  He now only indulged alone, or in moments of stress.  Patting his pockets again, he was on the point of resignedly returning the cigarette to its case when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a lighter and felt the heat of the flame near his face.

 

‘May I?’

 

****

 

She was diminutive.  The cigarette held loosely in her mouth a black sobranie, something he didn’t see women smoking very often.  As they stood in silence drawing in the smoke of their cigarettes he began to appreciate the rather perfect mixture of east and west her facial features displayed. She was wearing a rather upmarket version of the traditional Moroccan djellaba, this particular hooded gown made of a deep orange silk which complimented her thick, slightly wavy brown hair, a nod to the English side of her heritage.  He remembered Kuryakin telling him now.  The serious scientist and the flamboyant artist together producing this very clever, very sensual woman.

 

Napoleon stepped to the side a little, allowing her to sit while he fetched the chair’s companion, lurking next to the fountain.

‘Professor Rohde, I presume’ Napoleon began, thinking the abundant garden a suitable backdrop for that sort of comment.  She smiled; her eyes wary.

‘And you are?’

‘Napoleon Solo.  I represent the UNCLE, Professor.  I think you may have heard of us.’  Her expression didn’t escape him, something painful flitting across her features and then being buried in her eyes.  She sat back a little , obviously pondering something before she spoke.

‘Mr Solo, I know why you’re here, but I was told . . well I thought it was someone else your organisation was sending.’ 

‘It is.  There are two other men up there who have come to speak to you about your, um, formula, and of course there’s ..’  She started forward a little, and then sat back, as if she was fighting something within herself, preparing herself for disappointment.

‘Oh, I suppose there’s another American scientist with you to check on the validity of my formula’ she said rather sharply, the same wary look returning to her eyes.

‘Um, not quite.  He’s sort of .. Russian actually.’  Napoleon wondered why they were playing this sort of game, why he hadn’t just come out with it, or she hadn’t just asked outright, but he was prepared to continue, if only to ensure that at the end of it, she came out on their side.

 

He waited, seeing if she would ask.  He had forgotten until that moment the other things he knew about Veronica Rohde, but as they sat there, he became aware in the dusk of her arms, the djellaba falling back to reveal them.  It was obvious that she was ill from their size.  She looked thin, thinner than even a woman of her build should look.  But that was not all.  On both arms, from the forearms to, he imagined, her shoulders and possibly beyond, there were elaborate patterns tattooed.  Not the usual, crude subjects one noticed on men, but delicate, intricate intertwining of a design he’d never seen before.  She was aware of his gaze and shook her arms slightly, the garment once again covering them.

‘It’s Illya; he’s here, isn’t he?’ she said slowly.

 

 

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

Having managed to drift away from the admiring group he unwillingly found himself in, Illya stepped outside into the garden.  Chesters and Steele seemed enveloped in some kind of earnest discussion about America with the novelist, the expression on his face denoting clearly why he left those shores when they contained people like the two facing him.

 

Even in the dusk of the evening, there was enough light from the overgrown lamps of the sitting room to shed a kind of lambent beauty on the plants of the garden.  He pushed his way through to an arching pergola crammed with bougainvillea of an intense purple and then stopped, leaning against the wood and plant to drink in the quieter world of the garden, away from the incessant, intense talking of the room.

 

He groaned slightly at the sound of distant conversation, until his hearing adjusted itself to two familiar voices.  Napoleon appeared first, then, hidden behind him, Veronica Rohde.  For a few moments they stood in front of each other, Napoleon content to observe them, for once the Russian seeming larger, more dominant than the petite woman facing him.  He saw them both smile then, hers a cautious, wary smile again, his the kind of shy, innocent look that had somehow survived the cruel world he now lived in.

 

‘Illya, it’s been a long time’ she started, neither of them rushing forward to crush each other with hugs or kisses like so many others seemed to do here, Napoleon thought. 

‘Not really’ Illya replied calmly, keeping her in his sight, the colour of his eyes luminous amidst the luxuriant foliage behind him.  ‘Although it may feel like that, I suppose.’  Napoleon, normally so relaxed in the presence of a woman felt suddenly awkward; an intruder in this meeting, his partner and this woman apparently oblivious to his presence and both intensely aware of each other.  Then almost immediately the spell seemed broken and they both turned.

 

‘I presume you two have already met’ Illya said, returning to his usual laconic self.

‘Um, yes, Professor Rohde and I encountered each other earlier’ Solo replied, smiling a little.  Illya nodded, before, quite naturally, Veronica Rohde put her delicate hand in his and moved closer. 

‘I am glad it is you, _anh yeu’_

‘Yes, _em yeu’_

****

**__ **

 

 

Napoleon sighed.  It was obvious from the personal declarations in Vietnamese that there had been some sort of relationship between them, but of course the likelihood of Kuryakin sharing any details of that would be remote.  Still, it was somewhat serendipitous that while Chesters and Steele threw it about in the room above, a gentle connection had been remade between these two in this place.

 

Illya turned slightly and led Veronica across the garden, Napoleon following.  They both seemed entirely happy to have him with them, so for the moment he remained, his eyes glancing up at the house regularly for signs of impatience coming from the now crowded room above them.  They eventually found a little gravelled area with a curved seat, by which clustered pots of agapanthus and the remains of day lillies.  He saw Illya’s expression as they sat down, his concern communicating itself easily to his partner at least.

 

Obviously Veronica also knew Kuryakin’s aversion to cigarettes and refrained from indulging in another sobranie.  Instead, she turned to Illya, giving him the kind of critical look which someone’s close relative might indulge in.

‘You have grown a little since we last met, Illya.’  Illya remained seemingly impassive under her gaze, though Napoleon, undertaking a steep learning curve in reading his partner, detected a sadness in his expression as he stared back at her.

‘I hope it’s an improvement’.  She seemed uninhibited by Napoleon’s presence, running her hand across his chest and then lightly stroking back the soft hair that framed his face.

‘I think so, although I would have to see more to make a final judgement’ she said, a faint smile illuminating her face. 

 

From his position, Napoleon was able to see straightaway the instantly recognisable figure of Norbert Steele appear on the terrace, his body language denoting urgency and more than a little irritation.

‘I think someone is looking for Professor Rohde’ he murmured, breaking into the comfortable silence.  Kuryakin stood up, Veronica’s face assuming a slightly fearful expression.  He glanced down at her.

‘Don’t worry; you are more than a match for him, even …’

‘In my state of health?’ she said resignedly, reaching out for his hand.  Illya frowned.

‘I can’t tell you what to do, Veronica; I’ve never been able to do that.  You will have to talk to Mr Chesters, and then, well, …’

‘Then, if Mr Solo agrees, you can take me home.’

 

Napoleon wondered what kind of euphemism that might be, but in this case it seemed like the obvious thing to do.  He moved towards the house, the other two following more slowly behind.  He could see Steele more clearly now, his long legs pacing the terrace as he spoke furtively into his communicator.  Illya appeared to know what to do instinctively.  He drew Veronica backwards into the deep shade of an overhanging acacia tree whilst Solo picked up his pace and ran lightly up the steps towards the terrace.

 

‘And where the fuck have you been?’ Steele hissed, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Napoleon.  Not for the first time he wondered exactly how involved Chesters’ partner was in this particular THRUSH plot.  The tall, rangy American always seemed the essence of smooth, but looking at him now, Napoleon decided he was in all likelihood just a stooge.  A reasonably intelligent stooge, but lacking in the perceptive intelligence which his own partner had in abundance, and which would have alerted him to any possible perfidy on Solo’s part, he was sure.  Napoleon smiled.

‘Just doing my job, Steele.  You only had to call.  But then, it looks as if you were a little preoccupied with talking to your partner.’  Steele snapped the communicator shut and glared at Napoleon.

‘Shut the fuck up, Solo and tell me where she is, otherwise I might be tempted to pop you one and blame it on your creepy partner.  You know, a lover’s tiff yeah?’ 

 

With perfect timing Veronica appeared.  Napoleon decided not to demean himself with a reply to Steele’s comment, leaving him staring into space as he escorted her across the terrace.  He glanced behind him.  Kuryakin was nowhere to be seen.

‘Mr Steele.  Is there a problem?’ she asked, as Grant Chesters burst from the house, his face suffused with the kind of barely controlled rage Solo had witnessed on other occasions when things hadn’t gone according to plan.

‘Finally!’ he barked, grinding to a halt in front of them. 

‘I’m sorry if I appear to have inconvenienced you in some way’ Veronica murmured, leaning imperceptibly on Napoleon.  He encircled her lightly with his arm.  She felt weightless, as if he could lift her with one hand above his head.  Chesters made some effort to control himself, a rather unctuous smile wiping out his previously more malign expression.

‘Not at all, Professor.  I was only wondering where you’d got to, that’s all.  I’m hoping you’d do me the honour of discussing your little project with us, if it’d be _convenient_ that is.  Then I can get our own resident scientific genius to give it the look over if that’s okay.’  Veronica remained silent for what seemed like a long time.  Chesters, unused to not getting his own way immediately, twitched slightly. 

 

Eventually she spoke. 

‘I don’t think so, Mr Chesters.  _Il faut s’adresser à Dieu plutôt qu’à ses saints_.’  Chesters’ mouth hung open slightly before he turned to his partner, mouthing something.

‘Um, I think a rough translation would be ‘why talk to the monkey when the organ grinder is available’ Napoleon murmured, hoping that Kuryakin was in hearing distance.  Chesters shot him an ugly look before plastering on another sycophantic expression.

‘Er, I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate’ he said slowly.  ‘You see, Professor, our Scientist chum is not what we in UNCLE would consider qualified for the kind of negotiations required over such an important acquisition.’  Napoleon grimaced.  Apart from the crude insult to Illya, the so-called senior agent was beginning to sound like some New Jersey Mafiosa somebody had dragged in from somewhere when the main guy wasn’t available.  Veronica sighed.

‘That may be your opinion, Mr Chesters, but I am prepared to take the risk that your scientist may know more about my ‘project’ as you so inaccurately put it, than either you or your colleagues do.  So, please decide now.  I am feeling tired and I wish to conclude our discussions before the evening ends.’

 

‘Where is the little runt?’ Chesters said in a barely disguised aside to his partner, the direction of whose gaze drew them to the open windows of the room behind them.  Illya sauntered over towards them across the terrace, a half-drunk cocktail in a martini glass twirling between his fingers.  He appeared oblivious to the atmosphere swirling round the other occupants of the terrace, a kind of languorous smile playing about his lips suggesting to those who didn’t know, that this was not the first drink of the night.

‘Oh hello again’ he said to Chesters and Steele, putting down the glass on the ground and then catching sight of Veronica.  ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced formerly.  Illya Kuryakin; I work for UNCLE too.’

‘Not for long if I can help it’ Chesters muttered, dragging Kuryakin aside and away from the others.  Illya sighed, the soppy expression he had come out of the house with now so convincing even Napoleon began to wonder.

‘Get a grip, Kuryakin’ Chesters almost spat in his face.  ‘For some reason unbeknown to me the lady wants to talk to you about her work; thinks you may understand it, though in the state you’re in, my pet dog Archie would probably understand it better.’  Illya straightened slightly, and attempted a look of concentration.

‘I didn’t know you had a pet, Grant.’ 

 

Chesters reddened and gripped the Russian by the arm.

‘Listen, moron.  You go back in there and get whatever it takes to sober you up and then you go and get that formula thing and bring it to me, understand?  Illya nodded vigorously and then, freeing himself from Chesters’ grip, stumbled back to where Napoleon and Veronica were standing.  He leaned over her, swaying slightly.

‘It’s alright, that’s tonic water’ he murmured, still grinning inanely. 

‘Um, we’ll look after him and then I’ll make sure he does his job properly’ Napoleon said rather loudly, gripping Illya’s arm firmly and glaring at him.

‘You’d better’ Chesters replied, turning away.  ‘I want a successful outcome to this mission and I want it by tomorrow morning.’  Without bothering to say anything more he stormed off towards the French windows with Steele, after a despairing look at Illya, following in his wake.

 

Illya watched them disappear into the still crowded room, before straightening and with a slight nod to the other two, downing his tonic water cocktail.

‘That was quite a performance’ Napoleon said, noticing that Veronica had transferred herself to Kuryakin and was now leaning quite heavily on him.

‘Mm.  I think in this case, it might pay to confirm their prejudices.  Chesters isn’t that stupid not to realise that Veronica here is not going to change her mind, so he has to trust me, but luckily, he almost certainly thinks I’m not capable of realising what he’s up to. 

‘Well he is a very stupid man indeed’ Veronica said, smiling at Illya.  She allowed him to put his arm round her and support her, although it was hardly difficult. 

 

They returned to the curved bench, Veronica sandwiched between them.  Napoleon turned towards the other two.

‘Now listen.  There is no point you explaining anything to me about this, but you have the organ grinder there now to discuss it with you and also to explain what our current problem is with the dynamic duo inside.  I’ll cover for you, as they say in the best spy movies, and then whatever you two decide, we’ll act on it tomorrow morning before Chesters starts wondering why he hasn’t got the formula in his sticky fingers.  Okay?’ 

 

He got up and headed towards the terrace and the party inside.  As he looked back, the shadows of the garden had deepened around the other two, just the rich colour of Veronica’s dress and Kuryakin’s glowing hair contriving to prevent them from being swallowed by the darkness.

 

**CHAPTER SIX**

 

The cab dropped them outside another now ubiquitous plastered wall.  Veronica unlocked the external door which, blackened by the evening, swung open to reveal a series of lights let into the interior walls.  A kaleidoscope of Islamic patterned tiling illuminated their way to the house.  Veronica, exhausted by the drama of the evening, clung on to Illya until he was forced to carry her into the house and put her on a long sofa festooned with silk shawls.  For some time she lay there immobile.  After a while an invisible servant appeared silently out of the shadows and turned on the lamps before serving them mint tea.

 

Illya lay back and closed his eyes.  Both he and Napoleon had assumed Veronica would accept their story and go along with them, but the exact nature of the formula and how it would be revealed were still far from clear.  He wondered whether he had overplayed his role of UNCLE buffoon, and whether ultimately, Chesters would suspect something.  If he did, and if he subsequently discovered Illya’s link with Veronica, then the situation could become extremely dangerous.  He leaned forward and sipped his tea, refreshed by its sweet, pungent taste. 

‘Pass me some then.’ Veronica had sat up and was watching him, her eyes too dark for him to discover the thoughts contained within.

 

They continued to sip the tea for a while until Veronica put hers down and then murmured something to the servant, before turning to Illya.

‘Before you say anything, please understand that I trust you Illya, completely; and your charming partner too, but you must appreciate that getting the formula to safe hands is my utmost priority, bearing in mind that it may not be very long before I am unable to control my own destiny.’  Illya lay back on the sofa again, his mind attempting to compute the various possibilities that might arise from this statement.

‘Veronica, I appreciate that, but you must understand that this is not just a matter of deciding who to hand over your work to.  If Napoleon is right, Grant Chesters is working for some ruthless and very determined people who, if they don’t get what they’re looking for, will not hesitate to take it, whatever the consequences.’

 

He felt her draw closer, and lay her head on his chest.  It was difficult not to imagine that if he drew her nearer to him, then without much effort, he could crush her. 

‘Veronica’ he said after a few moments, ‘this is not about us, is it?’  She didn’t pull away, just leaned back a little and reached up to enclose his face between her hands.

‘I think we are too late for that’ she said quietly.  ‘You made your decision a long time ago and I accepted it.  You always were such a puritan, Illya.’  Illya frowned.

‘You were married, remember?  And I didn’t .. I don’t believe in breaking up other people’s relationships, even when they’re’…’

‘About to end?’  She sniffed a little and then smiled.  ‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t because of you.  Richard and I, we were not, what do they call it .. _sympatico_.’

‘Perhaps.  At any rate, I’m not really marriage material, am I?’  She twisted, drawing his face nearer towards her.

‘You are wrong.  Besides, I’m not interested in anything long term, Illya, only the moment.  And now even the moment is too long.’  He pushed her face back slightly and kissed her, her smell, the taste of her flooding him with feelings of regret for what could have been and now seemed entirely lost.  She drew back and pushed him down onto the sofa, sitting astride him, he hardly aware of her weight, only of her presence above him.

‘Illya, don’t spoil this moment with negative feelings from the past.  This is more than I imagined it would be, and that is enough.  Now, before it’s too late, I need to give you what you came for.’ 

 

With some difficulty she slid from him and stood up, clapping her hands together with a single, sharp action.  The servant, an ageless Moroccan with a face which lacked expression slid out of the shadows pushing a small trolley covered in a white cloth.  Whatever means she had chosen to give him the formula it wasn’t going to be either obvious or simple.  He waited until the servant had disappeared and then got up.

‘No.  Sit down first and I’ll explain.’  He watched as she massaged her hands, the fingers, so long and delicate, noticeably stiffer than when they had explored his body what seemed like a very long time ago.  She turned back from the trolley and sat beside him, her fingers undoing a few of the buttons of his shirt.  He stopped her at the fourth.

‘Explain.’ 

She laughed a rippling sort of laugh and stroked his nose before taking his hand.

‘You remember my interest in _Horimono_?’  He thought back to distant evenings in his cramped Cambridge room, or occasionally in the more spacious surroundings of her elegant house in the terrace facing King’s College.  _Horimono_ ; traditional Japanese tattoo art.  She had shown him endless wood block prints by _Ukiyo-e_ artists, the intricacies of the natural forms then transferred to skin in vivid colour by the _horoshi_.  Like everything else she did, Veronica threw herself into a wholescale study of the technique but despite her pleas, the man she loved would not submit to her in this way, in the same way he had drawn back from the sexual relationship she had craved.  

 

He now looked at the trolley and recognised the same implements. The bamboo rod stuffed with the bundle of needles ready for _tebori_ , and in a delicate dish, something resembling charcoal to make the black dye. 

‘Veronica, I …’

‘I know. Just listen to me.  A little while ago, when I discovered that I might not have much time left, I contacted a _horoshi,_ an artist of great ability who was working in London at the time.  My fingers will not allow me to create the kind of work we talked about, but when I was having the tattoos I suddenly realised that there was one way I could give you the formula,  a way that might be very difficult to discover.’ 

Illya sat down and ran his hand through his hair slowly. 

‘So, you don’t have the formula on your body ..’  She shook her head, frowning.

Although you think I am a naïve scientist, I realise the dangers of what I have.  That’s why I destroyed all my records except one.  I did think of having the formula inscribed on my body, but think, Illya.  My disease is a gradual and inexorable one.  Very soon now I will begin to lose the ability to move my muscles, to breathe without aid, to have control over my own body.  If these people you talk about know that the formula is on me, all they have to do is to take me and then wait.  Eventually they could remove it from me, and there will be nothing I can do to prevent them.’

 

Illya sat back and turned away from her.  He felt her hands on his arms drawing him back to contemplate her face.

‘Don’t be sad.  You can do this for me and if I am right, we can hide the formula from those people, yes?  Illya looked at the trolley and frowned.

‘Yes but how?’

She pushed him back on the sofa and disappeared for a minute, returning with a dark silk dressing gown.

‘Trust me, Illya.  All will be revealed, you could say, if only you will be patient.’

 

***********************

 

After an illuminating conversation with a man called Françesc de Corsado Blanco, who purported to be from Sevilla and had a specific interest in patina, Napoleon made a decision which he hoped would not prove rash.  Chesters and Steele had cornered him in Mrs BF’s dining room, the strong peacock blue colour of the walls giving Steele’s insipid washed out looking blond hair a strange turquoise tint as he leaned against it whilst Chesters barked out his latest string of orders.

‘They left about twenty minutes ago’ Napoleon replied calmly.  ‘It might take a while but I’m sure she’ll cooperate eventually.’

 

****  


 

He noticed Chesters twitch slightly again.  Obviously the strain was getting to him, and in a sense it was a good sign, or at least a sign that their hypothesis concerning the eventual outcome of this mission was proving to be correct.  It was Napoleon’s inability to report any of the goings on that evening or even discuss his theories as to what might happen next that led him to make the decision.  Although he couldn’t file a report, Chesters could.  Just who he might speak to though was of great interest to Napoleon, and he was determined to be near when Chesters eventually decided to do so.

 

Señor de Corsado Blanco came to his unexpected aid in this matter, sweeping in and suddenly engaging the unwilling American duo in a conversation about wall texture.  Napoleon thanked the gods of the decorative arts and headed for the door.  A rumbling cab had him at the Continental Hotel well before his colleagues, with enough time to enter the building through a side door conveniently propped open to allow the more cooling air of the evening into the hotel kitchen. 

 

Breaking into their room felt a little too easy, but after spending some time checking that there were no booby traps set to surprise any unwanted guests, he concluded that they were arrogantly careless, or just lazy.  Or both.  The room was in fact a small suite, the Americans not stinting themselves it seemed with just sharing one room, but booking a set of three.  A small sitting area separated the two bedrooms, an enormous and heavy lamp in the centre of the room emitting a pleasant glow for the few seconds Napoleon turned it on.  With some difficulty he unscrewed the bulb holder and attached what looked like a transparent piece of matt sticky back plastic with several greyish mounds across it to the inside of the lamp, replacing the holder and then standing back from it for a moment. 

 

It had been the inspired gift of one of those weird guys who seemed to inhabit Section VIII and never went home, though he would have to expunge those thoughts from his mind now that his latest partner could also be described in those terms.

‘Listen, Mr Solo, it only lasts for about a day.  That way you don’t have to retrieve it, see, and also they won’t find it either if they do a sweep.’ 

‘And it’s supposed to look like …’ He had stared at the piece of plastic, moving his head from side to side and still not getting it.

‘Fly shit’ the guy had said without irony.  ‘I modelled it on stuff I noticed on the window sills in my apartment when I got round to cleaning last week.’

‘Nice’ Napoleon had said, already retreating out of the room.  Now he was glad of the guy’s weirdness, even if his housekeeping skills were a bit off.

 

He glanced at his watch.  No doubt by now the other two would have extricated themselves from Françesc and be on their way home.  Glancing around for one final time, he gently shut the door and retreated the way he had come.

 

********************

 

The buzz of his communicator returned Illya from the sleep that had eventually come to him once tiredness overcame pain.  He vaguely remembered walking to the bed he now lay in, if walking could properly describe the limping gait he used to drag himself there.  Veronica turned a little and opened dark, almond shaped eyes in his direction.

‘Napoleon.’  He sat up slightly, forcing himself not to cry out too loudly as his legs moved.  There was a slight hiatus before his partner spoke.

‘Um, I presume you’re still with the good professor.  Everything OK?’  Illya paused, watching Veronica walk unsteadily across the room.

‘Yes thank you.  Um, you’ll be pleased to know I have the formula, in fact I have the only copy of the formula on me.’  Napoleon frowned.  There was something his partner was not being quite up front about.

‘That’s good.  I take it from that that your friend didn’t ..’

‘No, Veronica had a copy on paper which she has now destroyed.  I’ll explain later, Napoleon; I think we should …’

 

Another, higher pitched sound began to be emitted from Solo’s communicator.

‘Illya, I have to go.  I’ll get back to you.’  Illya stared at the communicator for a few moments and then put it down.

‘Is there a problem?’  Veronica had returned, the towel wrapped round her head indicating a recent shower.

‘No I don’t think so.  I think his communicator was alerting him to something.’  She came round to his side of the bed and put her hands round his shoulders.

‘The pain will reduce, there will just be soreness for a while.  Try not to … rub it on anything.’  Illya sighed.  When he joined UNCLE there were many things made clear to him, many things, unpleasant things he knew might happen.  But this, this wasn’t one of them.  Standing up with a slight grimace, he walked slowly to the bathroom.

 

**************

 

A voice came through Napoleon’s communicator after Chesters had spoken.  It wasn’t familiar, and in a sense, Napoleon didn’t expect it to be.  The voice alone confirmed everything he and Illya had conjectured.  The words spoken underlined it.

‘What I need to know, Mr Chesters, is whether you actually have Professor Rohde’s formula, and more important, how quickly you can deliver it to Central.’ 

 

Napoleon listened as Chesters, stress now clearly showing in his voice, assured whatever woman he was speaking to that the formula would be forthcoming.

After he finished speaking, the female whom Chesters addressed as ‘Dr’ was silent for a moment, before saying slowly, ‘You do realise, Mr Chesters, that Dr Rohde and Dr Kuryakin are intimately acquainted?’ Chesters hesitated, before saying with a confident manner that fooled no-one, ‘Oh well I didn’t think that was his style, but you know how it goes, Doctor, if it gets the job done.’

 

The irritation in the THRUSH doctor’s voice was palpable. 

‘I don’t think you quite understand, Mr Chesters.  Let me change tense.  Dr Kuryakin and Dr Rohde _have been_ intimate in the past, at least intimately acquainted let’s say.  So I suggest, Mr Chesters, that you supervise your colleague a little more closely and remove the formula from him before he and his partner work out what is really going on here and return to New York.’

 

Napoleon closed his communicator with a clang and then opened it again.  Veronica’s house was close to the Continental hotel.  With a sinking feeling he hoped that they had left by now but judging from what he had heard, for some reason Illya had sounded less than healthy and Veronica, well he could only imagine what the stress of the situation was wreaking on her.  Illya eventually answered after what seemed like an eternity to Solo.

‘Kuryakin’

‘Yes I know.  Illya, Chesters knows about you and Veronica.  It’s imperative you leave now.  Meet me at the airport; I’ll make the arrangements.’  He banged the communicator shut and then rapidly left the room.

 

Illya closed his communicator and stood up.  The pain had degraded to a kind of average soreness now, uncomfortable but bearable.  Since he literally had nothing except what he stood up in with him his preparations for departure had been almost instant, but Veronica, looking exhausted from the events of the previous night, had moved more slowly, despite his gentle encouragement.  They reached the courtyard and were almost at the outer door when he heard a car screech to a halt outside and the clang of the outer bell.

 

Veronica’s servant appeared out of the house, as soundless as ever.  Pressing her against the wall behind him Illya drew his gun and signalled to the servant to open the door.  A voice broke through the quiet of the interior courtyard.

‘Good morning, Ahmed.  Be a dear and give those to darling Veronica.  I have to rush now but tell her to be sure to bring that _gorgeous_ man back for cocktails tonight.’  Ahmed, now carrying a large tray of what looked like agapanthus plants, stepped backwards and shut the door.

 

Illya sighed and shook his head.  He holstered his gun and turned to Veronica.

‘Is there another way out of here? 

 

‘There most certainly is; so if you don’t mind, drop the gun on the ground and move away slowly from the lady.’

 

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 

 Chesters had emerged from the same door as the servant.  From the look of him and of his partner, they had approached through the garden, a few bracts of purple bougainvillea clinging on to Chesters’ immaculately pressed suit.  Illya removed his gun and then crouching down slowly put it gently on the floor.

 

They were escorted back into the house, Steele bringing up the rear with a gun firmly shoved into Illya’s kidneys.   He led Ahmed off to the kitchen, motioning the other two towards the sofa to await his return.   Illya glanced towards the door before staring impassively at Chesters.

‘Let Professor Rohde go.  She doesn’t have what you want.’  Chesters smiled.

‘Oh sweet.  Trying to protect your girlfriend now?  I didn’t take you for the romantic type, Kuryakin; I figured that was Solo’s role in your so-called partnership.’ 

‘Talking of partnerships, Chesters, I was wondering whether you’d fully discussed your new employment arrangements with your partner yet.’  Norbert Steele had returned and now stood behind the sofa.  Illya could see even with a sideways glance that the remark had thrown him a little. 

‘Don’t let him get into your head.  As I told you before, he and Solo are THRUSH plants.  Hell, he's a Soviet for fuck’s sake!’  Illya twisted round and stared at Steele.  He came round to the front of the sofa. 

‘Get up.’  Illya felt Veronica’s hand on his, her face drained even of the insipid colour it had been when they had woken that morning.

‘If you hurt him I won’t cooperate with you’ she said.  ‘Despite what he says, only I have what you want.  I will come with you if you promise me Dr Kuryakin won’t be harmed.’ 

 

Chesters uttered a kind of imperious snort at their words and jerked his head towards his partner, Steele returning to his place behind their heads.  As he moved past him he glanced at Illya, a frown darkening his expression.  Chesters sighed loudly and looked round the room.  Above him, a candelabrum containing a ring of candles swayed in the slight breeze from the door.  He reached up and unhooked it, throwing it onto the table nearby, the candles scattering and rolling across the polished surface. 

‘Take off your belt.’  He levelled his gun in Illya’s direction while Steele moved closer.  Illya looked down, noticing Steele’s actions as he unbuckled his belt with nervous jerky movements of his hands. 

‘Move the table aside and put a chair underneath.  Now, if you don’t mind, Kuryakin.  Just to satisfy my curiosity, see?’

 

**********************

 

He could see Veronica’s Moroccan servant from the kitchen window, mercifully wide open to mitigate the building heat of the morning.  The man’s eyes signalled fear and gratitude in a single glance, his graceful head movements equally indicative of where the others might be.  Once inside, he could hear Chesters’ deep, sarcastic tones overlaid by Veronica’s more desperate, pleading ones.  The other two characters in the drama were worryingly silent.  He made his intentions clear to Ahmed before untying him, and watched the Moroccan slip fairly easily back out of the window.  Unholstering his gun, he moved silently towards the dining room. 

 

Illya’s silence was immediately explainable.  He was hanging slackly from a hook suspended on a beam in the ceiling, his clothes strewn across the floor at his side.  Norbert Steele’s arm was hooked round Veronica’s neck, her painfully thin body powerless against his strength, her voice suffocated.  Chesters appeared to be conducting a physical search of the Russian agent with his gun, poking and prodding his body as it rotated slightly in front of him.  Fortunately for Napoleon, he was definitely out of Steele’s line of vision and Chesters had his back to him.  He had a clear view however of the thick stream of blood now oozing down the side of Kuryakin’s face.

 

Chesters ran the barrel of his gun down Illya’s chest, stopping just above his penis. 

‘Now before I get a little tired of this game and start getting a little less gentle with your boyfriend, tell me where the formula is, okay Professor?’  He glanced over at Veronica’s stricken face and then glanced down, frowning.

‘What the f…..’

 

Napoleon craned his head slightly to the side and stared in the direction of Chesters’ gun.  He had rammed the barrel into Illya’s genitals, lifting the penis up and bending slightly towards it.  What looked like a black line could be seen extending down the foreskin, indecipherable with the penis hanging as it was now.  Napoleon, despite the situation, found it difficult not to allow a wry smile to appear on his lips .  Chesters straightened, but not before there was a loud cracking sound from above and the apparently unconscious Kuryakin had, with a mighty grunt, gripped Chesters’ neck between his legs and swung him suddenly off balance.  They crashed to the floor together, Chesters’ gun sliding across the tiled floor and coming to rest under the table. 

 

Napoleon sprang forward, jumping over the now sprawling duo on the floor and heading towards the sofa.  Norbert Steele had adjusted his grip on Veronica and was now standing, the barrel of his gun firmly wedged into her temple.  Napoleon stopped, waiting for the other two to realise.  At last, Illya glanced upwards.  Wiping his face with his hand he released Chesters from the hold he had him in and staggered to his feet.  Chesters, his suit now crumpled and smeared with Illya’s blood, stood up before giving Illya a hard shove forwards towards Napoleon and then pulling out a particularly vicious looking knife from inside his jacket.

‘OK gentlemen if you wouldn’t mind.  I need to take Mr Kuryakin here back to New York for a little bit of minor surgery before he’s interrogated for his role in a THRUSH plot to de-stabilise UNCLE in North America.  Norbert, Mr Solo here is, as I showed you, THRUSH’s main man in New York.  So do the necessary and then we can leave the lady here while we escort this one back.’

 

Illya sighed loudly.

‘If you believe that, you are more naïve than I could ever have imagined’ he began, staring straight at Steele.  ‘Why don’t we all go back to New York and then if you are in any doubt Mr Waverly can show you Napoleon’s evidence.’

Steele reddened, his grip on Veronica loosening slightly.

‘What evidence?’ he almost shouted, the gun in Veronica’s head trembling a little.

‘The written evidence I’ve been compiling for the last few weeks’ Napoleon said laconically.  'Well that, and the recording I have of the phone call your partner had with his friends at THRUSH Central this morning.’

 

It was Chesters’ turn to redden, a nasty sneer wrapping itself round his face.   A dawning awareness of sounds in the street suddenly jolted him into action.  He moved rapidly towards the door leading into the kitchen.  He turned in the doorway, the knife in his hand.

Steele remained in a kind of frozen state behind Veronica, his gun attached to his hand but the man not really capable of firing it, slowly mouthing something his brain could hardly comprehend.  Chesters sniffed and shook his head.

‘Fuck you Solo.  Fuck all of you.’  The flight of the knife and Chesters disappearance seemed to happen simultaneously.  Veronica gasped, a great spurt of blood shooting across and hitting Illya as Steele put his hand to his neck, and then slowly dropped to the floor.

 

As Illya turned, Napoleon gripped his arm.

‘Don’t bother.  You’re not really dressed for it, comrade.  Besides, you now appear to have the formula pretty well attached and I think somebody needs you more.’  Illya stopped, skidding slightly on the pool of blood in front of him on the floor.  Veronica had somehow lowered herself into a more or less sitting position on the sofa but appeared motionless, as if she had been propped up there like a shop dummy. 

 

Napoleon walked rapidly round the sofa and knelt down.  Steele lay awkwardly, barely alive, despite Napoleon’s attempts to staunch the flow of blood from his neck.  He heard the clang of the external door and was aware of several voices in the room, Illya speaking, and then two men peering over the sofa before a hand attempted to drag him back from the stricken agent.

‘Wait.’ Steele’s voice was a faint murmur.  ‘After a long moment he spoke, his words more like breathing out than speaking.  ‘I .. er… I trusted …him. ‘ He looked up. Illya’s face peered down at them from the sofa.

‘What did he say?’  Napoleon stared up at him.  It seemed like a long time since he had stood outside Kuryakin’s rooms in London in the pouring rain wondering what the hell he was doing there and why on earth he should want anything to do with the figure staring down at him from the windows above.  Now Steele’s words struck some kind of inner chord with him. 

‘He said what I would say, partner.’

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

****  


 

The room was unusually full, considering it was supposed to be a place where people recovered quietly from surgery, Napoleon thought, a slight twitch of annoyance spreading across his face.  Round the bed a côterie of people was massed.  A few of the more attractive nurses seemed to be in attendance, but there were other visitors too, even a few of Kuryakin’s colleagues from the labs.  Nearer the head of the bed he could just make out Sabi Klose in the squeeze of bodies, her voice with its husky undertones easy to make out.  After waiting a few moments longer he cleared his throat loudly and pushed forward.  A little choir of faces turned towards him, several of the girls’ expressions ranging from predatory to disapproving as he managed to fight his way through.

 

In a finer than usual pair of blue pyjamas, Illya was sitting upright in bed, two of the nurses apparently there solely to plump up the pillows behind him, Napoleon surmised.  He seemed to be reading something, something everyone else wanted to read as well, it.  He looked up, peering at Napoleon over his glasses. 

‘Napoleon.  I wondered when you’d be able to make time to visit.’  Napoleon looked round, glaring just enough to cause the party atmosphere to abate a little and the crowd to diminish.

‘I guess you were doing pretty well without me’ he said, sounding like a twelve year old after his first date had blown him off.  Illya glanced at Sabi and then put down the piece of paper he had been reading.

‘Don’t be peevish, Napoleon, it doesn’t become you.  Actually, I was looking at this.  It appears that Sabi was so impressed by your idea she suggested it to Waverly.  After the fiasco with Chesters he thinks we all need some ideas for positive wellbeing.’

‘Of course it’s only internal, among all of us in Section Two darling’ she added, twirling Illya’s hair with her long fingers.

 Napoleon frowned and picked up the piece of paper.

 

It was immediately obvious that it was a certificate of some sort, from the blue rosette in one corner, and the usual UNCLE logo on the other side.  In the middle, on  a strip made to look like curling ribbon was carefully inscribed

 

 

SECTION TWO AGENT OF THE MONTH AWARD

Presented to

ILLYA KURYAKIN

for services above and beyond the call of duty

 

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Sabi enthused, her hand now firmly returned to the bedside by a rather smug looking Russian. 

‘Section VIII tells me that the formula is highly legible now the skin has been able to be stretched’ he added, wincing slightly as he hoisted himself up the bed a little.  Napoleon dropped the certificate back on the bed.

‘Well, seeing that most of us in Section Two were not able to make that particular kind of noble sacrifice, I think it’s a little, well, unfair.’  Illya raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m sure that your name will be high on Waverly’s list for June’ he murmured, hardly trying to suppress a smile.

 

After Sabi had gone, Illya attracted the attention of a passing nurse, one whom Napoleon appeared to be on good terms with it seemed, from the wide smile she aimed in his direction.

‘Napoleon would like a coffee and I’d very much like a cup of tea’ he said kindly, his usual rather sour attitude in Medical somewhat improved by the award Napoleon imagined.

‘So how did Waverly take the news that Chesters had escaped?’ he said after the refreshments arrived.

‘Better than I thought’ Napoleon replied.  ‘In fact he told me that he assumed we would be successful and so had already made preparations to change all the codes affecting the building and sensitive material.’

‘He still knows a great deal.’  Napoleon sighed. 

‘Yep.  People are on alert, but there may be a few casualties along the way until we can finally bring him in.  Of course I guess we’ll be top of his ‘unfavourite agent’ list by now.’

 

Illya sipped his tea and then lay back on the pillows.

‘So what about Veronica?’ Napoleon said finally.  He saw his partner’s face tighten, his dropping eyelids an indication of the mind within.

‘What about her?’  Napoleon frowned and waited.  Kuryakin could be tighter than the average clam about women he had decided, but he wasn’t a superlative interrogator for nothing.  With some people, it was just a matter of time.


End file.
